


The Assistant Spies

by varjohaltija



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, First Meetings, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-01 05:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2760569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varjohaltija/pseuds/varjohaltija
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Great Depression isn't easy for anyone. Therefore detectives Barton & Romanoff end up taking jobs they otherwise might have passed. Usually it's just distasteful. This time it might turn out to be deadly as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Assistant Spies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sian1359](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian1359/gifts).



 

#### New York, 1932

Clinton Barton sat behind his heavy, mahogany desk in the office of “Barton & Romanoff”. His features were masculine and his frame sculpted by physical activity. His bearing tended to make people wary, yet there was a hint of softness in the line of his jaw, and a surprisingly warm glint in his intelligent, sky-blue eyes. When he smiled or laughed he could be even called beautiful. His blond hair twirled into wild spikes no matter what he tried to do with it and his strong hands were always a little bit restless. Maybe that’s why he had never been able to quit cigarettes – filthy, expensive habit or not, it was as much about having something to twiddle with as it was of actual smoking.

He was just about to light the cigarette he had been turning around and around in his hands while he was reading The Times, when Natasha Romanoff threw a knife at him. Or at his newspaper, to be exact. The blade stood neatly in the middle of the sports section.

“Stop that goddamn fidgeting, it’s driving me nuts!”

Barton didn’t even raise his eyes, just grinned while prying the knife off of his desk. “You seem cranky today, honey… should you maybe sleep some more and spend less time in jazz clubs?”

“Somebody has to do the job and follow the leads. If both of us downed half a bottle of whiskey and were unconscious by ten every night to avoid facing our pathetic excuse for a personal life, we'd be soon out of money for the rent.” Romanoff was definitely using heavy artillery today. Barton felt a tiny twinge because there was more than a seed of truth in her snark. Uncalled for or not.

He didn’t have time to come up with equally nasty comeback, before there was a knock on the door and their secretary peeked inside.

“There's customer here. Are you free?” Fitz’s voice was slightly pitched and there was excited urgency to be heard in it.

“Sure. Send him in”, Romanoff called.

“How… how did you know he’s a he?” Poor Fitz, he hadn’t still figured out that the gender and attractiveness of the customers was obvious from his behavior. Judging by his near breathlessness, this one was good looking on an astronomical scale.

And sure enough, the man walking to the room was handsome: Tall with dark hair, brown eyes to die for and a jaw that could provide material for several lesser jaws. Not really Barton’s type, too young to begin with, but he understood why Fitz was all flustered and had followed the man to glue himself to the doorframe to get a better eyeful. From the corner of his eye, Barton could see Romanoff gesturing Fitz to go away and close the door.

“Good morning. My name is Ward.” He shook Barton’s hand, simultaneously taking in the detective's somewhat shaggy appearance: shaving wasn’t really something Barton was going to include into his daily routine and it had been maybe three days since the last time. Ward himself seemed like the type that took personal grooming seriously. He was wearing a fine suit and if it wasn’t for his way of carrying himself, he would have looked like a normal, successful businessman. There was however, certain alertness, that only comes with training and facing actual danger. Government or mafia, then. Judging by his expensive shoes Barton would be inclined to go for the latter.

Romanoff reached out her hand as well and he took it with a dashing smile. Anybody else would have missed it, but Barton could see the slight tensing in her, an aborted urge to pull her hand back and the minute twitch of distaste in her mouth. She didn’t like this man at all.

“Rumor says that your agency is the best when it comes to finding people who don't want to be found.” Ward said, opening his briefcase, digging out a pile of papers. Both Barton and Romanoff gave out a tiny nod. They did have an excellent track record. Mostly because Romanoff was nothing but stubborn and Barton had unconventional ways of digging out information.

“This is my sister Skye.” There was a genuinely sad smile on Ward's face when he gave a photograph for them to see. In the picture, there was a beautiful, young woman, maybe in her mid-twenties, who, apart from her dark hair, didn't resemble Ward at all. “She ran away with this man. Phil Coulson.” His jaw tightened in anger. “Without him, she never would have...” he took a deep breath and then gathered himself, continuing calmly, “He is not a good man. I'm afraid he is coercing her. I need to contact her and ascertain this is what she really wants.” Ward handed over another photo.

Well, OK, Barton would have definitely run away with a man he saw in the picture. Coulson was maybe in his forties, with appealing classical features, his face was intelligent and kind, shoulders broad and… Barton realized he had been staring for maybe a bit too long, when Romanoff kicked his shin.

“I'd like you to locate them and we will take it from there. He is the jealous type and could be dangerous if confronted. I need my sister to be safe. You shouldn't approach him.” Barton raised an eyebrow for “we” part, but said nothing.

Ward provided them with more pictures and but for all that, remarkably patchy information. Interestingly they all worked in the same insurance company. And that was just beginning of implausibilities.

After giving his contact information and paying half of the agreed fee, Ward left.

 

Romanoff didn’t seem happy.

“Oh, I don't believe a word that man said. He is dodgy and gives me creeps. We could be getting that girl in serious trouble. Not to mention her lover. Or whatever he is,” she said.

Barton let out sigh. They had discussed this earlier, but the depression seemed to be deepening. They really couldn’t afford to be choosy. He had to give it to her, though.

“You are right,” he replied. “Something doesn't add up. But most of our clients are like that. It’s not like normal, decent people hire private eyes.” He shrugged off the bad feeling he was having about Ward, “I do believe he genuinely cares for that girl. Love triangle, maybe? But why would he lie about that? And anyway, we need the money. It's not our job to question why the client wants us to do something.”

Barton took the photographs and left to meet his secret weapon. 

 

 

Many private detectives and cops use a street kid as their eyes, but Barton had a small army helping him. He had lived on the streets himself, orphaned and tossed around in the system. Private Detective Rogers had taken him under his wing, helped him get his basic degree and encouraged him to get into detective business, later making him his partner. But Rogers had died a decade ago and had left Barton with the agency. It was only when Barton partnered up with Romanoff that he finally got into changing the name in the door.

Barton knew from personal experience why street kids didn't want anything to do with adults. There were so many human monsters and deceiving bastards out there that it was better to stay away from any sign of trouble and mind your own business. Knowing that, Barton did better than most in approaching them and gaining their trust. He would never admit it, but he actually cared a great deal of these young people. Romanoff might have been right about him using fair portion of his earnings for the cheap whiskey, but a lot also went into keeping his ”assistants” fed and clothed and out of trouble as well as he could.

He gave his lads the photographs and off they went, scattering to the dark alleys.

 

 

 “I hate these things. How can there be an outfit you cannot get in or out of without assistance!?” Romanoff was grumbling as Barton helped her get into a black gown.“And these shoes! Why can't you go shadow people? I really think you could suffer every once and a while.”

Barton huffed out a laugh, fastening the last button, “You fit in so much better with all the classy people, darling. I can do the digging on the muddy streets while you shine and sparkle on the dance floors. Quite literally.” He ran his hand along the heavily sequined back of Romanoff’s dress. “Besides, this would look terrible on me. Purple is much more flattering.”

Romanoff turned to give him a dirty look and then just sighed. “You are _so_ funny.”

She took her handbag and started towards the door. “Have you heard from the runaway lovers? I asked around a bit and it seems that Ward has hired at least three other firms to look for them. Don’t tell me that doesn’t sound odd.”

Barton didn’t comment. He was looking curiously at the pile of wires and parts of electronics that Fitz had left on his desk.

“What is all this?”

“Fitz really likes making all kinds of handy spy equipment. You should try them out sometimes. Here, let me show you the thing he gave me today…” Romanoff started to dig her handbag.

“Nah, I don’t need that stuff. I can do with my eyes, feet and fists. And my Colt. It’s all about the legwork in the end, no fancy technology can ever change that.”

“Suit yourself, but you are really missing out here. Keep your ears open and don’t get yourself killed, tough guy.”

She put on her coat and left.

 

 

It was late evening when Barton received the word that a man and woman fitting the description had been spotted in the Brownsville area. Without hesitation, he went to investigate.

It was cold weather for April and Barton started to regret not getting his thicker coat. Luckily he didn’t have to hang around long near the indicated apartment buildings before he spotted Coulson. The man may have been a master in blending in with his surroundings, as Ward had warned them, but Barton had keen eyes. Following Coulson from a distance he watched as the man hailed the cab as young woman ran to him from the nearby building. Ensuing interaction was interesting to say the least. Barton watched as Coulson furiously gestured as if ordering her to go back. The woman, who was quite likely Skye, was also angry. She jutted her jaw forward in defiance, folded her arms and didn't make a slightest attempt in complying. This didn't seem like lovers quarrel, however. Finally, Coulson seemed to relent visibly.

They both got into the cab and Barton’s luck was with him again as another cab appeared, ready to follow.

The cab drove them to the Grand Central Terminal, and Barton lurked behind them, watching as they found their way to the waiting room and sat down in the quiet corner. Barton fidgeted from across the room. He should just call his client already. They had done what was asked of them. But as Romanoff had said, something was stinking in this whole case. And well, he really should get the exact address of the couple. They were likely to return to the same place they had left from, because obviously woman wasn’t meant to come along and neither of them had any luggage. So, he would just follow them back. Easy.

Barton was observing them over his newspaper, more and more convinced that whatever was going on in here, these two definitely weren’t romantically involved. Coulson obviously cared for her, however. He reminded Barton of the street dogs he had seen, bitches standing vigilantly in guard of their pups. Coulson was alert, actively scanning his surroundings without being obvious about it. There was also the same air of military training Barton had observed in Ward. Coulson’s bespoke, three piece suit and shoes appeared even more expensive than Ward’s. Insurance agents, his ass.

Suddenly Coulson’s gaze fell on Barton and stayed focused on him for slightly too long for comfort. Barton almost stopped breathing for a moment and tried to nonchalantly sink deeper behind his newspaper. Had Coulson noticed him tailing them? Probably not. At least he didn’t react in any way to indicate that. Paranoia. That’s what you get in this business.

After another ten or so minutes of waiting, a man approached the pair. Barton barely kept himself from laughing out loud. The man was so clearly trying to disguise himself that he was popping out of the crowd like a sore thumb. Seriously, long raincoat, fake beard and sunglasses? Indoors? What was this, some cheap detective novel? Coulson didn’t seem impressed with man’s outfit either: there was an absolutely hilarious combination of shocked disbelief and exasperation on his face as he rose to confront the Fake Beard. Barton could not help smiling.

The three of them started moving through the crowd that had just flooded in from the train, and Barton tried to follow them. It wasn’t easy and when he got to the main hall, they had disappeared. Barton swore under his breath. He would now have to go back to Brownsville and find their exact address the hard way.

He was aware of somebody getting close but before he had time to react, there was something hard and cold pressed into his side, followed by heavy hand landing on his shoulder.

“I guess that is nothing as fun as it could be.” Barton didn’t have a death wish, but damn, if you couldn’t joke about the gun in your ribs…

There was a low chuckle next to his ear, “Well, no, but it doesn’t have to get ugly, either.” Barton turned his head carefully, keeping his hands clearly in view. Coulson was standing next to him, hand around Barton, and a pleasant, familiar smile on his face. Everything in Coulson’s being was telling to any outsider, who might have been looking, that here were two close friends, just having a friendly chat. Coat draped over Coulson’s arm covered the pistol. Barton was suddenly acutely aware of the strength of the hand resting on his shoulder, and arm around him. He really shouldn’t be this excited about being held at the gunpoint. Or notice things like that Coulson looked even better up close. And smelled nice, too: cologne, coffee and something musky that made him feel like nuzzling Coulson's neck... _What?_ Barton wanted to smack himself on the head. What was wrong with him? He should definitely take Romanoff’s advice and get laid more often.

“And now we just walk away from here together.” Coulson remarked pleasantly. He squeezed Barton’s shoulders a bit and started guiding him ahead.

Self-preservation instinct, which had momentarily ceased to exist, jumped back into full gear and Barton stopped, turning to take a look at Coulson again.

Coulson’s eyes narrowed and his lips tightened into a hard line. Looking into his eyes Barton saw a sad determination – he knew Coulson would kill him if necessary. That made no sense. It would gain him and the girl maybe a few more days maximum before somebody else found them. No illicit love affair could be worth murdering a person in the middle of the crowd. This was indeed something else entirely. What had he gotten himself into?

He nodded and let Coulson guide him outside. Fake Beard and Skye were waiting by the line of cabs.

“Meet our new friend… Clinton Barton.” Coulson held Barton’s wallet. Barton was impressed. He was a skilled pickpocket himself, so he could appreciate exquisite talent when he saw it. He was certain that at this point, Coulson had already taken his gun as well, not that he was going to try and check.

“So… you are a private eye?” Coulson actually seemed like he was trying to make a conversation. When Barton decided to keep quiet, Coulson continued, “I truly am sorry, but we have to take you along.”

Skye and Fake Beard took a cab and Coulson hollered at another one for himself and Barton. 

In the cab Barton, feeling antsy, reached for the cigarettes in his pocket. Of course, this caused Coulson to straighten in alertness and take a tighter hold of his gun.

“Wow, easy! I’m just feeling like a smoke.” Barton took the cigarette packet out slowly and offered one to Coulson.

“No thanks, I quit a few years ago. My doctor insisted it’s bad for me.”

“Huh, is that so? I thought it was supposed to strengthen your lungs?”

Coulson just shrugged. They shared the rest of the way in the dark and silence, with Barton smoking his cigarette, and Coulson watching him. It should have been uncomfortable, but Barton felt surprisingly at peace. Stupid or not, he actually liked this guy.

 

 

At their destination they took to the alley, Skye and Fake Beard leading the way, carrying the heavy-looking, wooden case. Coulson followed them, keeping Barton in front of him.

They had taken few turns when three figures with nasty looking guns stepped from the shadows only few meters ahead of them. Barton could hear that there was movement behind them, as well.

“Coulson.”

Coulson turned around to the direction of the raspy voice, rest of them following him. Skye and Fake Beard grouped closer to Barton.

Source of the voice, a beefy man with a face only mother could love, was smirking in a way that instantly made Barton want to punch him right in the nose. Except that he also looked like the guy who would definitely kill you for even trying.

Coulson growled, “Rumlow.”

“I’m positively surprised. Ward was right, after all, to make us shadow this loser.” Rumlow nodded towards Barton, who gritted his teeth.

“Now, let’s cut this crap short. We were instructed to get the girl.” Rumlow turned his gaze at Skye, “I’m afraid that poor sod is still under illusion that we could make you work for us. God knows why - one would think that trying to kill the guy would convince him that his feelings aren’t reciprocated. I personally think it’s so much less hassle just to get rid of you.” He raised his gun and fired at Skye.

Later, Barton couldn’t describe, how he had guessed what happened. Rumlow had ‘asshole’ written all over him, so maybe it was just that. Barton was moving even before Rumlow had stopped talking, catching Skye and tackling her down with him. He stayed there for a few moments, shielding her, preparing for the worst, before looking up.

There was a fight going on. Goons were now unarmed and receiving kicks and hits from Coulson and the flurry of sequins, red hair and bad temper that proved to be Romanoff. Two of them soon had Rumlow and his men rendered into unconscious heaps on the ground.

Romanoff kicked Rumlow viciously for one last time “That’s for calling my partner a loser, you swine!”

“Ok, so that explains who you are.” Coulson was a bit breathless still, but after quick straightening of his suit and tie and putting his hat back on, he looked much like nothing had happened.

“Nice moves in that suit, Mister Coulson.” Romanoff acknowledged.

“You weren’t too bad yourself, in that dress.” Coulson complimented, “but I seem to have a disadvantage of not knowing your name, Ma’am.”

“This is Natasha Romanoff.” Barton tried to rise, but winced on the pain on his arm. “Shit. I think he got me.”

Romanoff and Coulson hurried to help Barton and Skye up, making a quick check on them both. Barton indeed had been hit – there was a long, ragged bullet graze on his upper arm, but Skye was unharmed, save some bruises.

“What did I say about not getting yourself killed?” Romanoff was scolding Barton.

“Well, I’m not dead. Thanks to you, I guess. How are you even here, by the way?”

“Your little helpers saw you get in a cab with suspicious looking people” She shot a poisonous look at Coulson and two others, “and they came  straight to me. I figured you would come back to where they had seen the aforementioned suspicious lot first. It took some effort to get here this quickly. Do you even know how hard it is to run in this dress?”

Coulson picked up Romanoff’s handbag, took a glance at unconscious thugs lying on the ground and said, “We’d better get going before they come to. I’d very much like you two to follow us. Barton here needs some medical attention.” It was clear from his tone that this actually wasn’t a suggestion.

Barton felt Romanoff stiffen on his side. He put his hand on her shoulder in a way of calming her down. He then nodded to Coulson,”We’ll come.”

 

 

The building was ordinary looking and probably most of the people living there were average individuals with their jobs and three kids. The apartment they went to wasn't ordinary, though. Barton noticed that the door was extra thick, reinforced with metal from inside. There were also way too many locks and a heavy metal bar. A fortress.

Coulson left them into the hallway with Skye and Fake Beard, and had a conversation with someone before leading them inside the apartment. Whomever Coulson had talked with was nowhere to be seen.

“And again, I’m very sorry, but this is necessary.” Coulson rummaged through Romanoff’s handbag, removing a Browning and a switch blade before returning it to her.

“You’ll get these back later on. I promise.”

Romanoff just smiled as she gracefully accepted the bag.

Coulson showed them in. Fake Beard and Skye stayed behind in the corridor. There were hushed voices behind the closed door they went past. A tall, black man with a bright smile and military gear was waiting for them and led them to the room in the back of the apartment. Coulson closed the door behind them. The place was equipped for medical procedures. Not an ordinary apartment indeed. Barton’s skin crawled.

Romanoff had stared at rifle in the man’s hands and she was now taking in the furnishing, apparently realizing the deepness of the trouble they were:

“Who are you people?”

Coulson looked at her with a kind expression, trying to collect all the calm in the world into his words, “Let’s get your friend fixed first, and discuss that after.” Barton glanced down. His sleeve was soaking wet with blood and apparently he was still bleeding. He shot an apologetic smile to Romanoff, who sighed and slumped to sit on the corner of the table.

Coulson ushered Barton to take a seat. He then threw his jacket aside and rolled his sleeves before sitting next to Barton and starting to take Barton’s coat and shirt off slowly and carefully. Despite his efforts Barton had to take in a few sharp breaths as fabric got stuck in already coagulated blood.

Coulson cleaned the skin with cloth and observed the bullet grace, wrinkles deepening on his forehead, “It’s just a flesh wound, but without stitches you may bleed for a long time.” He took out equipment from the drawer next to him.

“This will hurt now, but it needs to be thoroughly cleansed.” He splashed the cut generously with alcohol before starting to stitch it. Barton bit his lip and inhaled harshly through his nose, damn but that thing stung.

He watched as Coulson skillfully closed the wound, big and callused hands surprisingly gentle and accurate, “I'm afraid to ask, but where did you learn to do this? Do people around you get shot regularly?”

Coulson didn’t lift his gaze, but the crinkles around his eyes deepened, so Barton could tell that the man was smiling. “I volunteered with French troops during the war. There are lots of things you learn in the African bush.”

“Volunteered, eh? You are more heroic than I am.”

Coulson snorted, “There wasn't much heroism in that. I was a stupid and bored kid who wanted some adventure. I thought that going to war in exotic countries would be an exciting escape from the routines.” He was a silent for a while, forehead scrunching in concentration as he finished stitching the wound up. For a moment he looked very sad. “It was exotic alright... and nothing like life at home... but not a rollicking adventure.” He then splashed some more alcohol on the cut and started wrapping Barton’s arm. After quickly rinsing his hands he gave Barton few big tablets and a glass of water, saying, “Take these. They are made apparently of some fungi and taste terrible, but my doctor says they will prevent the wound from getting infected. I don't think they can hurt.”

“Is this the same doctor that said that smoking is bad for you?” Barton eyed the tablets suspiciously, but downed them anyway. They were indeed disgusting.

Coulson was pulling his sleeves down and buttoning them. Barton found himself to be rather sorry to see the strong forearms disappear. “Doctor Simmons is quite advanced.” Coulson said and took a shirt from the coat rack and opened it for Barton to get his injured hand in more easily.

“It’s good for a doctor to follow his time.” Barton remarked, letting himself to be dressed.

Coulson was opening his mouth to say something, but Romanoff cut in, “I’m glad you fellows feel like chatting, but now I’d really like to know who you are. Because to me, this seems like a military base. That or you are working for the government.”

Coulson grinned. He reached for his jacket and took a badge from his breast pocket, showing it for both of them.

Badge was round, with a big upside down V in the middle, letters A.S.P.I.S. forming an arc on circle’s lower edge.

“A.S.P.I.S. What does that stand for?”

“Administration of Standardized Political Intelligence Services.” Coulson answered.

“God, that's silly!” Barton guffawed. He saw a slightly hurt expression on Coulson’s face and fell silent, making a tiny awkward apologetic shrug.

Coulson huffed and smiled, “Well, I guess it's quite silly. Someone really desperately wanted it to spell aspis, didn’t they?" They both laughed.

“What is an aspis anyway?” Barton asked.

There was a sniff from Romanoff, “It’s a Greek shield. Or a venomous snake. I guess it depends whether you consider them friends or foes... but anyway… They're spies.”

Barton raised his eyebrow in surprise, “You know this?”

She gave him a fond smile, “You would too, if you read actual books instead of that popular crap. Also it would help if you would listen to Fitz every now and then. He could probably write a book of any alphabet soup agency there is. He wants nothing more than to get into the spy business.”

Coulson looked at them curiously, “You are absolutely right. We are spies. Although I prefer to use ‘intelligence agent’. And you are now mixed into the ‘spy business'.” There was amusement in his voice.

He frowned and knocked on the door. A man stepped inside.

“This is Agent Triplett. He will ... ummm... keep you safe until we’ve discussed with our associates on what to do.” Coulson sounded regretful.“I apologize for the inconvinience.”

“Of course. Oh, and don’t forget this.” Romanoff said, with a smirk, taking the suit jacket from the table and giving it to Coulson, who put it on, nodding politely.

“Thank you. Now, excuse me... I’ll be right back. Triplett will be right outside if you need anything.”

He seemed uneasy and like he wanted to say something more, but then just stepped outside with Agent Triplett and closed the door behind him.

 

 

Romanoff worried her lower lip, “He's guarding us. In case they decide we are liability.”

She took a glance at the door and emptied her handbag onto the table. She picked out three cigarette holders, a lighter and a packet of cigarettes.

Barton was slightly baffled, “When did you start smoking?”

There was a wicked smile on her face, “This is the equipment Fitz has been working with that I mentioned this morning. I was going to try it out at the club, but I could as well test it here.”

Barton watched curiously as Romanoff tore the lining of her purse and took out electric wires. She connected the cigarette packet and the lighter and attached cigarette holders to it.

“It looks like a radio receiver.” Barton observed.

“You aren’t as dumb as you appear, honey. That’s exactly what it is. I left the part Fitz is especially proud of in Coulson's pocket. Let’s see if it works. It should be close enough.”

She pushed the button on the side of the lighter and there was a hum of the static to be heard. She swiveled the cigarette holders and the tiny radio rattled. More tiny adjustments and there was a voice. It rattled and buzzed but it was still obviously Coulson.

“You bugged him!”

“If I'm to betray my client, who quite likely also is some sort of secret agent, no matter how sleazy, I might make sure I do it for the right reasons. This has started to be quite a dangerous game and who knows whether these here are the bad guys.”

Barton frowned, “I think we should stick with Coulson. He seems like a decent fellow. Polite.”

Romanoff rolled her eyes and shook her head, “Barton, you are drooling so hard after that man that you would follow him even if he shot you in the knee! But I guess if he does it _politely_...”

Adopting his blankest expression Barton said, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Shush now…" Romanoff lifted a finger to her lips and they both leaned in to listen.

 

 _ _“_ Do you trust them?”_  woman asked.

 _ _“_ Funny enough I do. He did take a bullet for you.”_ Coulson answered.

 _ _“_ Don't you think you might just like him, because he is all dreamy…”_ she had a teasing sing-song note in her voice.

There was wet coughing sounds. Coulson had probably inhaled his drink.

 _“Skye…”_ Coulson admonished, still coughing. There was a break as he cleared his throat and continued, _“However… they were just hired to find us. They are not part of a terrorist organization. In fact, I think we could use them now that they are involved anyway.”_

Another woman, with a British accent, responded: _“We are running out of time. I guess it doesn’t hurt to have help. The woman at least is a very capable fighter, or so I heard. Stark was utterly shocked.”_ She sniggered.

 _“I will never look at the women in the same way after I saw what their thighs are capable of doing!”_  man, apparently Stark, whined loudly from a distance.

Barton had to laugh. Romanoff in action was definitely enough to scare people.

 _“So, do we agree to let them into this?”_ Coulson asked. There was a murmur of general agreement.

Barton could feel his whole body relaxing. Romanoff, too, exhaled.

There was a sound of the door opening.

 _“And come on, Agent! You are into that detective guy! Even I could see it. You should ask him out!”_   Stark was laughing.

There was a disapproving sound from Coulson and probably some serious death glares, because Stark fell silent.

Barton's ears were burning and he could feel the blush spreading. He didn’t have to look to know that Romanoff was grinning.

Skye giggled, “ _You really should, AC. You actually might get lucky. He wasn't particularly subtle either, fawning over you._ ”

“ _You are out of line, agent. We are not having this conversation._ ” Coulson huffed. “ _Now, put your stuff in order, I’ll go and get them._ ”

Romanoff looked at Barton, raising her eyebrow, amused, knowing smile on her face, “You've got to admit that the girl has good eyes.”

“Is this _really_ a good time to meddle with our… my personal affairs?” He was partly mortified and partly he couldn't help being a little bit excited that Coulson actually might like him. Which, of course, was nobody's goddamn business.

Romanoff grinned wryly, “As good a time as any. Life is short. I might not always have it easy with Maria, but it is nice to have someone to come home to. Really Clint... you cannot live on angst, coffee and that weird Italian flatbread alone.” She reached her hand to touch his shoulder, but pulled it quickly back as he flinched away.

“Do you mean pizza? Don't mock my favorite food! Mark my words, that stuff is going to be really popular someday. You should give it a chance. I bet you would like the one they make with fresh herbs.” He was very deliberately directing the conversation to somewhere else.

“Clint…” she started, but was cut off by the door opening and Coulson stepping inside.

Coulson saw the radio receiver and raised his eyebrow.

“Where's the antenna?” he asked nonchalantly, like it was an everyday thing for people to set bugs on him. Maybe it was?

“In your jacket pocket.” Romanoff admitted.

“Really?” Coulson reached into his breast pocket and took out a small box.

“This small thing? The best antennas we have are three times as large and much heavier. I have got to say this is impressive.”

Romanoff smiled smugly. ”We have a very capable friend.”

“We have to discuss about that friend. But now there are more urgent matters. I take it that you know already that we decided to trust you? Come with me."

 

 

They followed Coulson to the room which looked like a police command center. There were maps and photographs all over the walls and tables, miscellaneous devices scattered on the surfaces and weird diagrams and lists of seemingly random letters attached to the huge bulletin board that covered one entire wall.

Coulson introduced them to the rest of the people, “You have already met Skye, Tony Stark and Agent Triplett. Here are Agent Mackenzie and Doctor Jemma Simmons.” An absolutely enormous, well-built man nodded politely from the corner where he was sitting, and delicate young brunette next to him waved her hand.

Coulson continued, “A few days ago double spy inside of ASPIS was exposed. Garrett had been working for a terrorist organization Typhon. Skye here managed to interrupt their messages and decipher part of them. There seems to be a takeover on the way. Most encoded messages, unfortunately, used stronger encryption so we don’t know who exactly are the double agents. Without the actual key there isn’t much hope of deciphering them." He tapped the bulletin board and stopped to stare at it for a moment. His shoulders slumped a fraction and he rubbed his hand over his eyes, ending up pinching the bridge of his nose.

It was only then that Barton realized that Coulson looked exhausted. Quick glance around the room told him, that all the other ASPIS agents were also spent. No wonder they were so willing to get any help that was available.

“There still are infiltrated Typhon members and they definitely don't want us to decrypt rest of the information and reveal them all. Especially the ones higher up in the organization will go into great lengths to protect themselves. I had to take Skye and Garrett’s messages to keep them safe while she keeps on trying to decrypt them. She might be the only one capable of doing that. Tony Stark, engineer and inventor, has now provided us with the machine we need.” Coulson nodded towards the side table.

Romanoff looked at the thing that resembled a sorry lovechild of a typewriter and phone switchboard. “Enigma. You really are not going to decipher that without the key.”

Skye nodded, “We know few people from Europe who are working on actually cracking the Enigma!” She got excited, eyes sparkling up. She then sighed, “But it's still long way to go and we are running out of the time. Typhon knows that they can be exposed any day, so they will try and bring ASPIS down soon. We have to find out who is involved and eliminate the threat. We need the key.”

“Can't you just make that Garrett person talk?” Romanoff’s tone suggested that if they could not make the man spill all the information he had, she definitely would be able to do that for them.

Coulson brought his hand to his neck and cringed. “He will not talk to anybody anymore. He is dead.” The way he said it made it unnecessary to ask, who had killed him.

“We have all his papers here.” Coulson spread his hands on the piles and piles of paper, “People have combed through his office and apartment. Nothing. The only hint we have of the key is from the messages Skye managed to decrypt.” Coulson pointed at the paper that had been pinned in the middle of the board. In big letters it said:

#### “… clé c'est de visage de la pulpe.”

“We can’t figure that one out. It doesn't mean much anything. It has to be important. Garrett didn’t speak French and this was out of place. It isn’t long enough to be the key itself. Not that we haven't tried.” Skye provided.

Barton looked at the short message, then absent-mindedly leafed through the pictures that were on the table. “Where are these from?”

Mackenzie peeked over Barton’s head, “Garrett’s office.”

Some of them had a man in them, probably Garrett himself, a tall, bulky man with a thinning hair. Barton paused, took a look at few other pictures and barked out a laugh. Everybody stared at him, confused.

“You guys were too smart to figure it out.” Barton was grinning from ear to ear. “Visage de la pulpe - face of the pulp.”

Skye shrugged, “Yes, that is one possible translation. So?”

Barton pulled out one of the photos and put it in middle of the table. He pointed at a big black sculpture on the corner of Garrett’s desk.

Coulson was frowning and tilting his head from one side to another trying to see what had captured Barton’s eye ,“René Buthaud’s ceramic mask?”

Barton was momentarily thrown off, “Is that what it is? You're an art connoisseur as well?”

“Heavens no, I’m more into the funnies and films. Garrett had a taste for the finer things in life. He often bragged about that piece - bought it as an investment. The artist is apparently some sort of rising talent in Europe. But the mask, how...”

“There is a magazine called Black Mask that publishes pulp fiction.” Barton watched as understanding dawned on Coulson’s and Skye’s faces.

Romanoff patted his back. “Who would have known that trash you read would prove to be beneficial?”

Skye was positively enthusiastic. “It's so obvious and we never thought of that!”

“Would that still be in his office?” Barton asked.

“It should be. I will contact Sitwell and Hand and they can retrieve that statue.” Coulson replied.

Mackenzie sighed, “We have another problem though... The bullet you took also hit the enigma machine. Some of the machinery is broken and we cannot fix it. It was the only one that we know of, excluding the one in the ASPIS headquarters, which was broken by Typhon goons. We might be able to get another from Stark's military contacts…”

Barton beamed, “Or our secretary..”

“What?” there was a chorus of disbelief.

“Leo Fitz is self-taugh genius. He fidgets with all kinds of spy stuff. The bug you saw was made by him. He's absolutely fixated with Enigma for some reason. Never shuts up about it. He apparently has a machine. Or he could likely fix that one."

“So you do listen to the little guy.” Romanoff marked with a warm smile.

“A civilian has this technology?” Coulson sounded surprised, but shrugged, “there is obviously other people like you out there, Stark.”

He pondered for a moment, “Safest thing to do is to get the key and the machine here. Could you call your friend and make him bring it. Better yet, we get him an escort.” Coulson gestured at Mackenzie.

Barton called Fitz, explaining the situation and gave Mackenzie his address.

Fitz arrived with Mack maybe an hour later, totally flustered with excitement of being suddenly in middle of actual spies. Together they waited, detectives going through the papers with Coulson in order to see if they could figure out something else others had missed, and Fitz and Stark getting acquainted by Skye with messages they were to decrypt, until Coulson got a call from Sitwell. Apparently, there had indeed been very well hidden compartment in the statues base, which they had missed in the first investigation. Sitwell sent the code sheet they had found by radio facsimile.

Everybody gathered around Skye, who was switching the tabs and tapping the first message to the keyboard with a help from Fitz and Stark. All of them were grinning more and more widely.

“It works! We have the right keys!”

The next few hours flew by in decrypting Garrett’s messages. Coulson would, every now and then, make a call to release new names and bark orders. Fitz seemed happy to let Stark and Skye take over the decoding and hang around his new crush, Mack, fixing the broken Enigma machine together.

After a long night, in the dim light of the new day, Coulson was showing Barton and Romanoff to the cab. Fitz was staying to help with Enigma, but two detectives were no longer needed.

“We could use smart, capable people. If either of you ever decide to give up detective business... ”He gave his card to both of them and shook their hands. When it was Barton’s turn, Coulson let his hand linger a tiny moment too long, then he swallowed and let go. There was an awkward silence. With a sad smile on his face he turned to leave.

Romanoff elbowed Barton. ”Angst, coffee and flatbread, remember?” she whispered.

Barton cleared his throat. Well, fuck it.

“Hey Coulson,” 

Coulson turned and there was questioning, heartbreakingly hopeful look on his face. Barton couldn't help the grin that spread over his face.

“Umm... I don't know if you have ever tried pizza, but I thought maybe you would like to? I know this great place in lower Manhattan.”

Coulson's smile was bright and almost goofy, “That sounds great. It’s a date.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for an awesome prompt. I hope this went even somewhat that way and that you enjoyed this story. :) I wish you wonderful holidays and all the best of luck and much success and happiness for the New Year! 
> 
> Thank's for all of my betas: Jenny, beta-who-was and [Sara](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f) and [Cristina](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cristinuke), betas-who-came-in-the-moment-of-need. I owe you big time. All the remaining mistakes are mine. Toys are owned by Marvel.
> 
>  
> 
> **Stuff you might find interesting**
> 
>    
> * In US, pizza was mainly eaten by Italian immigrants before WWII. So Clint really is ahead of his time. :)
> 
> * Enigma was first cracked in December 1932 by Polish mathematicians. Want to know more about Enigma and other ciphering machines and totally blow up any illusion that I had any idea what I was writing about? [Virtual Cryptological Museum ](http://www.cryptomuseum.com/crypto/enigma/index.htm) will show you the way. :D
> 
> * "The Funnies" that Phil liked, were first things that could have been called comic books. They were first published in late 1920’s.
> 
> * Tobacco-lung cancer connection was first formally proven in 1929. However, tobacco advertising touted false health claims for long after that. One of the most popular ones was "Toasting removes dangerous irritants that cause throat irritation and coughing." :/ Listen to your Advanced Doctor.
> 
> * I shamelessly borrowed a lifestyle choice for Clint from one of my favorite movie cops: Harley Stone, played by Rutger Hauer ♥, was, according to his colleagues, living out of "anxiety, coffee and chocolate." :)
> 
> * Nerdy fact: Fitz's eavesdropping device was inspired by Leon Theremin's "Thing". Technology for this famous spy microphone was patented in late 30's and it was admittedly much bigger than Fitz's. Maybe those were the ones ASPIS used? :) But go Fitz!
> 
> * Another nerdy fact (I'm quite into these, can you tell?): Oral antibacterials were known to exist in the time this fic happens, but first tested, commercial products (sulfonamides) were on the market only few years after. We can thus deduce that Dr. Simmons conducted rather unethical human experiments with her patients :).
> 
> * The beginning of the story is, as you must have noticed, kind of from "The Maltese Falcon" (I tried to follow the plot a bit further and kill Natasha, but just felt too bad about it). The title is from another Hammett's short story, "The Assistant Murderer". It's less known, but rather entertaining. I warmly recommend it. :) It has nothing to do with the fic, though. Although I _did_ consider being as cruel in describing Clint, as Hammett is in describing his protagonist. In the end I just didn't have a heart. Clint is my pretty one. :) I'm a wuss. My heroes also aren't very hard boiled, to be honest. They are, under all the badassery, soft and sappy dudes and gals and that's the way I like them. :)


End file.
